Five poets sit in the desert.
Midnight. Water rises
above their chest. The mirror-like
lake sparkled with rhythms.
Was that a cinquain?
Wander alone at a sleepy moon night
Rectangular iron windows float by
Behind the curtains a hundred horses sigh
Sigh low and sighs overflow
I woke up, found myself covered by
A thin layer of distant sounds, thinner
than cicada’s wings. Curtain’s drawn.
Silence, a slow spread of liquid luminance.
I’ve never wandered again since then.
Clouds low tide, wind wings high
a young man with lion hair smoking
spice burning particles pumping, east is far
young man in indigo with hawk eyes
hallo tchuss hallo tchuss hallo tchuss
film rolling screening sculpture kaputt
white acrylic on white canvas, light
sawdust covering ancient red, bumping
messages received in the rain, twin lakes
Ancient tombs down while modern flats up.
What bedside story do you tell your child,
the Ming Great Wall built last year,
or the fake E Pang?